Narcissa Malfoy's Aftermath
by Oirams
Summary: A tie in to the Ultimate Harry Potter Series


**Narcissa Malfoy's Aftermath**

an Ultimate Harry Potter shortlet

by Oirams

Life sucks. It unequivocally sucks. This is a general truth if not a bonafide fact. But when your legs are broken, your friends are gone, and your life stares at you with a double-barrel shotgun gaze--then Life really does suck. And sucks hard.

"Corner of Fifth and Main. All aboard--Oh, shit."

The passengers inside the Ministry Bus moaned as they heard the paraplegic lift activate.

"Well, Mrs. Malfoy. Step lively now," said the irritated Bus Driver, speaking in between plopping two drops of honey candy in his mouth. "We haven't got all day."

Mrs. Malfoy grunted and backed her wheelchair slowly onto the platform. She tied her straps slowly. On purpose.

After a good 3 minutes and a full impatience later, the Bus lurched forward. Mrs. Malfoy stared out the window and watched the Ministry buildings fly by. Many of the passengers pitied her. To see her in this desolate state was quite saddening. She had always been a woman of form and grace. Thrown from the echelons of high society to being a woman of questionable standing--it was a sight to see. But for the few people that had known her deceased husband, it was an _entertaining _one.

Mrs. Malfoy's fine hair was covered by a small, dirty-brown beret--to cover the growing bald spot, of course. She was overly obese as well. The witch doctors had told her that the injury was too magical in nature to be cured by conventional means, and that there was no force on earth that could heal her. While she retained some use of her hands, she could not use her body. She could not exercise, walk, or even turn her body to see the pretty co-passengers that were grimacing at her obesity.

"Mr. Driver, sir," spoke Mrs. Malfoy forcefully. This surprised everyone. _I'm paraplegic, not mute, you idiots._ "If you please, this is my stop."

"Very well. Department of Mysteries, it is." The Bus Driver slowed the car to the halt. The paraplegic lift was jammed. Desperately, the driver tried to fix it. Mrs. Malfoy watched with a curious eye as she saw the Driver prance around the lift button with all the motions of a Neanderthrall.

"Your fingers, Mr. Driver. Are they sticky? From the honey drops you were eating earlier?"

The Driver rubbed his two fingers. "Yeah, what about it?"

Mrs. Malfoy lowered her eyes. She felt old. Tired, even.

"Well, then, you should really stop eating those nasty things because you've gummed up the button," he answered lethargically. She procured a rag and a canteen of water from the pouch on her wheelchair, and began to rub the lift button gently while applying the liquid from the canteen in small increments.

"There, I'm finished. Try now."

Slowly, the paraplegic lift began to lower.

"Well, what do you know!" exclaimed the Bus Driver. Maybe the Bus radio dials would work now if he cleaned them!

"Yeah," said Mrs. Malfoy in a dry voice. The Bus had already sped away and no one could hear him. "What do _you_ know?"

Inside her wheelchair, the mechanism clicked and clanked and motorized. It sped at a brisk pace--it had detected that a building was nearby and that it was the intended destination, and so it sped there without prompting. It was of Chinese manafacture. This struck Mrs. Malfoy's funny bone. It was not but a few years ago that China was known for only making cheap toys, and sneakers. Who would've thunk they'd have advance so far and so fast?

There was a sign right before the doorway of the Department of Mysteries.

"Unauthorized Users of Magic Will Be Prosecuted."

During the War, the old Ministry had been sabotaged. A small wand had been mailed into the building and--Well, everyone knew what happened after that. The New Ministry was split into several buildings with each Department heading its own security. Wands were deactivated during entry into these buildings, and even the road that linked the path between the Minsitry buildings had strictly enforced rules forbidding the use of magic. Safety, precaution, and whatnot. It was mind boggling to Mrs. Malfoy. Voldemort had been dead for nearly ten years. _Paranoia for the sake of tradition is bloody idiotic._

The glass doors to the Mysteries building receded, and as her ID was okayed by the front guard, a familiar voice began to flag her down.

"Narcissa! Did you hear!"

Narcissa Malfoy turned around--or she swiveled her chair for her head could no longer turn. Running to her was...Dennis Creevey. She was oddly fond of this one. Maybe it was because Dennis was roughly the same as age as her own child. Or maybe she was just lonely. However, her days were considerably more enjoyable now that he had entered the Mysteries Team. It was too bad that he was a freelancer and his stay at the Ministries was limited by the interim of the current project.

"Did you hear!" the Creevey boy repeated excitedly.

"Hear what, dear?" answered Narcissa gently. "I've made some cookies. Coconut--"

"Coconut! That's my favorite--" Dennis furrowed his eyebrows in order to stay on topic. "--But never mind that. Did you read the Ministry Post!"

"Of course not. I don't read propaganda rubbish. You know that."

"Yes yes. But--" Dennis fumbled around his robe for the correct pocket. "Here! Read it yourself!"

**Attempted Assassination of the Minister Foiled!**

"Who's the brave soul that attempted on Percy's life! I'd like to give him a medal!"

"No, no! Keep reading," Dennis plugged. He pointed urgently onto the next paragraph. Narcissa rolled her eyes but she indulged the boy. She read:

**On date, the Phoenix Order convened to discuss their policy on the overwhelming number of Chinese imports inundating England. However, their meeting was interrupted by a yet unidentified person. Officials would not comment how this individual bypassed security with such ease but sources say that Viktor Krum, Head Commissioner of England's Auror Division, may have been duped into providing the assassin with false credentials. This visitor opened fire on our Minister with a Percivius Spell. The spell, luckily, did not land. The Minister quotes: "The man did not have a wand. I believe that is what saved my life."**

**The culprit was captured immediately after but his identity has not yet been released to the general public. Further information will be disseminated once it is available.**

"So? What does this have to do--"

"It's Harry! He's come back!" stated Dennis eagerly. "The assassin the paper mentions is Harry! Krum says that Harry's powers are returning, and if that's true, he'll be able to fix you!"

Narcissa threw the paper away.

"He's the one who gave me my paraplegia in the first place and you...you actually think he's going to help me? Me, the wife of the person that raped and killed his girlfriend?" Narcissa spat. "You still think he's some kind of angel, don't you? You've never seen his wrath up close. If he's come back, after all this time, you shouldn't be worried about me. You should be worried about yourself."

"Oh, Narcissa. Not you too. Those rumors are baseless. Look, Harry's not the Second Coming okay. He isn't Voldemort. If he was, don't you think would have done something by now? Why wait ten years to strike back?"

Narcissa motioned for Dennis to wheel her to room 304(the waiting room for Deviant Operations).

"You've never met Voldemort before, have you, Dennis?"

"No, but what does that have to do with--"

Narcissa smiled, baring a row of perfectly carnivorous teeth. The Ministry loved testing magicks on her. Potter had crippled her with Ancient Magic, and as a result, made her a perfect experimental study.

"Voldemort, my dear, if you had known him, was known for his evil, yes. But that's not why we were always so afraid of him. Back when Voldemort was just rising in his power and prestige, he used to have a close confidante called Stan Berkowitz. They did everything together. Maiming, pillaging, even raping. Stan used to come to all the Death Eater parties my husband and I would throw. He came to every party. He was a very likable guy. But one day, he just stopped showing up. Instead, Voldemort himself would attend regularly. The Master made everything less fun, of course, but we didn't tell him that. One day, my husband joked off-handedly to the Dark Lord, "Oh, by the way, where's Stanley? The blighted bugger owes me a couple hundre' galleon.' Back then, you could joke with the Dark Lord. In fact, Voldemort used to be an okay person, before he mastered Death. Anyways, Voldemort only smiled, and answered, 'It was his time to die.' He didn't just say it off handedly, however. It was as if he planned Stan's death from the very beginning. It was as if he had decided Stan's fate from the moment he met him."

"What does this story have to do with anything?"

As they approached room 304, two orderlies came and took Narcissa's wheelchair away from Denns' hands. Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber was Narcissa's nickname for those two. Both Narcissa and Dennis giggled slightly as they shared the silent joke.

"The story," Narcissa continued. "Has to do with everthing. We respected Voldemort for his power. But we _feared_ him for his patience. Voldemort's goal has always been to possess Harry's body. A man like Voldemort always gets what he wants. Sooner or later."

"You're wrong, Narcissa. You're wrong."

But the doors to Room 304 had already closed, leaving Dennis alone there in an empty hall, talking to the back of an unresponsive door. Dennis stood there for quite some time, thinking on the ideas that Narcissa had exposed.

But Dennis was a Potter Stalwart.

"Eh, what does she know? She's just a Malfoy."


End file.
